What's Done is Done
by RochelleRene
Summary: What would you do if you had access to photos of House's childhood?  Probably obsess like Cuddy does.  Huddy love, sex, etc. - The usual.  Hope you like it!  Oh, and I don't own them... Is anyone confused about that?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Cuddy was mustering all the strength she could to will herself not to dig in the garbage.

She was throwing away a teabag when she saw them – the photos. House's mother had sent a big envelope earlier in the week that had sat on the counter for days. Cuddy didn't want to pry, but was curious about what was inside. Now she was dying because she saw the corner of a letter peeking out underneath a stack of photos lying on top of the trash. The top photo, the only one visible, was of a teenaged House standing with some other high school boys in track shorts and a jersey, sweaty and smiling. She had already bent her head practically into the can to look at it more closely, and was now fighting the urge to fish the rest out.

House must have opened the letter this morning, when she had already gone to work. And now he was at the hospital late with a new case and she knew she could just look and never be caught… But what questions would she have then that could never be asked without admitting she'd been so snoopy? She finally decided to just stop obsessing and be an adult. She grabbed her phone and called him.

"1-800-sexy-doctors. Do you need a house call?" House's voice was flirty, but distracted. His mind was working over the puzzle. Cuddy decided to cut to the chase.

"Why did you throw those photos away?" she asked, right out of the chute. House paused.

"I didn't want them," he answered.

"Did you ever think that maybe I'd like to see them?" she replied.

"My mom sent a bunch of random old photos, Cuddy. They're nothing," he replied.

"Well, I want to pull them out of the trash and look at them," she confessed. "Can I do that?" House paused again, then laughed.

"I'll be home in an hour," he told her, "No need to get off to my yearbook picture,"  
he teased.

"House," she pressed him for an answer.

"Yeah, fine," he said finally. "I don't care."

"Thanks," she said, delighted to have the permission. "Bye."

"Wait a minute, missy," he chided. "No 'I love you, House-y?' No 'When will you be home my hunk of man flesh?' All you want is to rifle through my past?"

"House!" she scolded, eager to concentrate on the photos. "Bye!"

"Bye," he said, chuckling a little.

Cuddy bee-lined for the trash can and saw Rachel watching her pull the stack of photos out. "Don't dig in the trash, Rachel," she told her. "Mommy's just doing it this once," she informed her.

"No no no no no no no," Rachel replied smiling.

Cuddy picked her up and plopped on the sofa with her, photos in hand. Rachel pointed at House's face in the track photo that lay on top and said "How-s." Cuddy smiled.

"Yup, that's House," she said. She looked at the photo more closely now, no longer hindered by the dark of the garbage can nor her feelings of guilt. He was a kid. Smooth face, open smile. His eyes still held the intelligence and suspicion that were him, but he appeared more carefree and easy. He looked happy and yet was surrounded by people – a weird juxtaposition to his anti-social nature. She flipped to the next one: House's mother – an infinitely younger version – was smiling and holding a baby.

"Baby!" Rachel exclaimed.

"Yeah! That's a baby! That's House," Cuddy explained.

"Baby How-s!" Rachel corrected.

"Baby House." It seemed like an oxymoron to Cuddy. She stared at that baby, trying to find any connection to the man she now knew. There was very little to connect them, not even the crisp blue of his eyes because the photo was in black and white.

The next photo was hilarious. He was in a tuxedo next to a teenage girl in a poufy dress, posing for the traditional prom photo. He was smiling, but Cuddy noted the way his eyebrows crooked up at the inside, the same way they did now when he was worried or surprised or whining. She could feel the awkwardness of the moment and laughed out loud.

She then flipped to a photo from his medical school graduation. He was flanked by his parents, standing in a cap and gown with the doctoral stole draped over his shoulders. Here was the bridge to now – an image of House with one foot in the boyish handsomeness of his youth and one foot in the jaded but dashing look of today. His smile was halfhearted next to his beaming mother and stoic father. His diploma was tucked under his arm and his other arm hung at his side. He looked at the camera and one could almost see him internally rolling his eyes at all the hullabaloo. Yet, his pride shone through the cracks in his apathetic shell – a glimpse of actual tooth peeking out of his smile, an eyebrow slightly arched.

There were some other random ones – a yearbook photo, a few of him as a child on family vacations. Cuddy had to get Rachel ready for bed, though, so after quickly rifling through them, she scooped up her daughter and laid the photos on her bedside table to scrutinize more fully after books, bath, and bed. House's life trajectory would take some concentration.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Meet me for a beer," House had told Wilson twenty minutes prior over the phone. Wilson had begrudgingly left his apartment and they were now at a table in a dive bar, nursing pints while House sat silently surveying the room and Wilson waited for whatever was on his mind to be revealed. House acted casual, though, and as if all was right with the world. His case was solved and the patient was on the mend.

"Why are we here?" Wilson finally asked.

"Because I wasn't going to the cheesy martini bar you suggested," House answered.

"I don't mean 'here' as in location. I mean, why aren't you home?" Wilson probed.

"Are any of us ever really 'home,' Wilson?" House deflected, still not meeting his eyes.

"Are you fighting with Cuddy?" Wilson continued.

"No, no," House said, finally sitting forward a bit and acknowledging the beginning of a conversation. "She's just gonna be all nostalgic and annoying when I get there. I'm hoping she'll be asleep."

"Why nostalgic?" Wilson asked, leaving the annoying part as a matter of opinion.

House sighed. "She found a bunch of old photos my mother sent me. I know she's gonna want me to talk about them and describe my prom date and my high school and my frickin' childhood. I don't wanna get into all that," he explained.

"Why not?" Wilson asked. "She's just curious."

"It's annoying," House repeated. "I don't see the point in reviewing all that stuff from the past. None of it is changeable, so who cares?"

"I don't think changing it is the point," Wilson suggested. "_Normal_ people just like to tell stories about their growing up. And they like to hear the stories of the people in their lives."

"I don't," House replied.

"I realize that," Wilson said. "Note that I said 'normal people.'" House glared at him.

"I prefer people to think I was spawned from the Devil and Clint Eastwood," House said.

"Clint Eastwood?" Wilson exclaimed. "Come on, you're not _that_ cool."

"No problem with the half-Devil prospect, though…" House observed. Wilson gave a small grin.

"What do you mean about changing it anyway? What would Cuddy want you to change about your prom experience?" Wilson teased.

"She's gonna want to experience the same backseat magic that girl did," House explained with a smirk, "And frankly, I'm exhausted today."

"I understand," Wilson replied. "I'm sure Cuddy will to. Just tell her you'll hump her for two and a half minutes in the backseat tomorrow," he suggested. "House, just tell her you don't want to talk about it if she gets on whatever sore subject you're trying to avoid. She's used to you being evasive and hiding things."

House nodded to himself. "What if it's all sore subjects?" he countered.

"Then that's your problem, not Cuddy's," Wilson pointed out.

House looked at him. "I need to find a new drinking buddy, Wilson."

"Good luck with that," he replied.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Cuddy was lying in bed, studying the photos again, and keeping one ear open for House. She was mesmerized by one of him as a little boy, all dressed up in a tiny suit at a piano recital. His feet didn't even reach the pedals. His hair was all slicked down on his head and he had a look of concentration on his face. He was practically unrecognizable, of course, being around seven or eight years old, but she kept staring at his hands. Those little boy hands that carefully plunked out some childish tune were the same hands that now danced over keys without a thought. There were several others of family vacations. Some were of him and his "dad" holding fish they had caught or standing on docks. His trademark scowl was emerging even then. There was one of him holding a guitar with a group of other young guys, trying to look cool. She searched his face for any resemblance to the man she now knew.

She was carefully scanning a photo of him standing next to a car when her phone buzzed. It was a text from Wilson that simply read, "_Tread carefully_." She glanced at a photo on the bed of an expressionless twelve-year-old House sitting in a boat next to his dad. She texted Wilson back: "_There's nothing even bad. I don't get him_." She heard House come in the front door and stacked up the photos, laying them on her bedside table. She turned out the light and feigned sleep. She heard him rustling around in the kitchen when her phone buzzed again. Wilson had replied, reminding her, "_They don't photograph the bad times, Cuddy. People just remember them_." She lay there thinking about the random smattering of things she really knew about House's past. Not the facts of where and when, but his feelings about it all. She realized then just how guarded he really was.

House had tossed his backpack aside and was heading to the bedrooms. He felt strange – cornered or exposed or something. He knew he was making too much of this, but also knew he wanted to avoid it like the plague. He stopped in Rachel's doorway and saw her sleeping in her crib. She was sprawled out, with her legs tangled in the blankets. Her mouth was slightly open and her rhythmic breathing filled the silence. She made him nervous. She was so dependent on the people around her. She couldn't do things for herself or even always articulate what she wanted. It wasn't Rachel, per se, but all kids. Their powerlessness made him uncomfortable. But as he looked at her sleeping there, the uneasiness shifted slightly and he felt a pang of protectiveness over her, comatose in her funny striped pajamas. This _also_ made him uncomfortable so he decided to just go to bed. Sometimes he really missed Vicodin.

Cuddy listened as he walked quietly into the bedroom, then the bathroom where she heard him brush his teeth, pee, and change his clothes. He got in bed beside her carefully and lay on his back. She waited a few moments, but he lay motionless.

"Why are you trying not to wake me?" she whispered.

"Because I am a sensitive boyfriend who respects your need for sleep," he whispered back.

"Then how come every other night you grind up against my ass until I wake up?" she retorted.

"I've matured, Cuddy," he explained sarcastically, "But if you insist," he said, rolling over and pressing himself against her, his thin pajama pants separating them. Cuddy rolled over to face him in the darkness.

"You solved your case?" she asked.

"There was any doubt?" he scoffed. They stared in each other's eyes.

"You were a cute baby," Cuddy commented, grinning. House rolled his eyes. "What?" she asked in protest. "I can't admire your infancy?"

"Next you're going to develop some weird baby fantasy and want to spank me," he teased.

"That sounds like me," she agreed sarcastically. "You were a handsome teenager too,"

"There was any doubt?" he scoffed again.

"So what was your track event?" she asked.

"And… here we go," House sighed.

"What?" Cuddy protested again.

"What do you want to know, Cuddy?" House asked rolling back onto his back and folding his hands over his stomach. "The two mile, usually. I only got to third base on prom night. I actually hate fishing. I started piano when I was four. I found dances awkward and graduations boring. Shocking, I know. What else?" he sighed again.

"What is your problem?" Cuddy asked, propping herself on one elbow to look at him. "Why did you throw those photos away and why are you irritated with me for looking at them?"

"I'm not irritated. You can look at them all you want. I just don't want to talk about them," he clarified.

"Why not?" she asked.

"It's boring," he said. "There's no point."

"Why does everything have to have a point?" she pressed. "Can't I just be curious? Can't you just remember for the sake of remembering?"

House blinked at the ceiling. "You sound like Wilson," he grumbled.

Wilson's name reminded Cuddy of his texts. She decided to soften her tone. "Why did you throw them away?" Cuddy asked again. She waited, letting the question hang in the air.

"I've done a lot of dumb stuff in my life, Cuddy," House began. "I don't need to sit around and dwell on it."

"Running track was moronic," she agreed, smirking at him. "And though cute, you did look like an idiotic baby," she added. House glanced at her to return the smirk, then stared at the ceiling again. "What do those pictures make you think of?" she asked, already guessing. "When your leg worked?"

"No," he answered quickly. "I mean, yeah, but no. Not really." He stared some more, gathering his thoughts. He wasn't used to them being scattered and unfocused like this. "Those moments in life, those time periods… There's all this potential. Even screwing up doesn't screw anything up that badly," he explained. Cuddy waited. "Later, though," he continued, a little more hesitantly, "That stuff has longevity. Stupid choices change whole trajectories. Careers. Relationships."

Cuddy thought about what he was saying. "You're not happy with where you ended up?" she asked, trying to hide the slightly wounded feeling that was creeping into her heart.

House turned and looked at her. "Are you?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" she replied.

"Are you happy - totally happy - with how we ended up?" he asked again.

"Yes!" she answered quickly. She didn't understand what he was getting at. "I didn't settle for you House, if that's what you mean." She swallowed, then asked what she now needed to ask, "Did you settle for me?"

"No, Cuddy," he explained. "That's not what I mean." He rolled back onto his side and mirrored her, propping himself up on one elbow. "Don't you ever think about how strange it is," he continued, "That we met decades ago, even began what this now is, but there's this huge gap in the middle?"

Cuddy considered the question. "It's strange, I guess," Cuddy conceded, "But it's our story," she said matter-of-factly.

"But I wrote it," he retorted. "I'm the one who got kicked out of school. I left without a word. I spent years pretending to hate you." She blinked at him, confused. "I wasted a lot of time," he explained.

"House, I don't get it," Cuddy said. "We're here now. That's what matters."

"Is it?" he asked. "It's what matters to me," he continued, "But you surely wanted something more… regular. The marriage, the kids, the picket fence and all that."

Cuddy furrowed her brow. "How do you know what I wanted?" she challenged. "I am capable of pursuing my desires, House. I wasn't waiting for you to show up again one day and make my dreams come true."

"That's not what I'm saying," he argued. He rolled back onto his back, exasperated. "This is why I didn't want to talk about this," he reminded.

"Okay," she said, "I'm sorry. Try again. What do you think about when you look at those photos?" she asked.

"A million things," he answered. She stared at him expectantly. "What you want the list? Okay, who would I be if I hadn't had to grow up with my dad? What ended up happening to the different people I grew up with? What if I'd stayed in that band?" He took a breath and continued, less belligerently. "What if I hadn't gotten expelled from Michigan? What if I'd stayed and we'd dated? That graduation photo, for instance. It would have been at another school. You might have been in it with me."

Cuddy nodded, trying to keep up with his thought explosion. He turned his head and met her eyes. "I might have married you, Cuddy. Given you kids. Given you 20 years we can't have back."

Cuddy blinked, surprised at this rare example of emotion winning out over logic in his mind. "Maybe," she agreed. "Or maybe we would have broken up because I was a freshman who needed to sow her oats," she teased, poking his leg with her knee. "Or I might have been a horrible young mother. Or maybe you still would have gotten an infarction, become a bitter asshole, and left your wife and children in turmoil." House looked right at her. "There's no guarantee that it would have been 'better,'" she concluded. "And I don't regret anything. We're where we are now, which is good." He nodded slightly, reassured by her statement. "House, we all have good and bad stuff in our pasts. But it all led to now. So if you're happy with now, it's all that matters," she said philosophically.

"Exactly!" he proclaimed, "So why do we have to stare at pictures and talk about it?" he pointed out.

"Because then I can fantasize about doing you as a teenager," Cuddy quipped, "All sweaty and stinky after a track meet." She winked at him.

House met her eyes with a serious face. "And I miss my leg," he said. She gave him a sympathetic, half-grin.

"I know," she said. "But at least you have a big cane," she teased, groping him.

"I always suspected you just loved the cane," he retorted, relieved by her levity.

"Functioning legs are over-rated," she informed him. "Look, you've made it past third base now," she reminded, flirtatiously.

He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her belly against his. "True," he murmured. "You know, every time I get to do that I feel a little less lost and empty inside," he said, with a mock pout. Cuddy gave him a little glare. "Wanna give me some therapy?"

"You still have those short track shorts?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. House leaned in and kissed her chin.

"Use your imagination, Cuddy," he advised, his words muffled by the skin of her neck. He felt her give a silent chuckle and then heard her sigh a little as his hand snaked up the back of her nightgown. Her skin was warm and smooth against his hand.

"Mmmm, okay then," she murmured. "Teenage House in short track shorts," she described as he planted small kisses down her neck, pushing her onto her back and sliding her nightgown up over her head, leaving her naked beneath him. Her head sank into the pillow. "Muscular. Sweaty. One thing on his dirty teenage mind," she continued.

House kissed down her chest, his lips and hands finding her breasts. "It's those damn adolescent hormones," he pointed out. His hands circled her waist and pulled up, lifting her body to meet his mouth. Cuddy sucked in her breath, her back arching to meet him, her eyes rolling back as his stubble danced slowly along her body, from her breasts to her stomach, to just above her heat, then back up again.

"Teenagers," she whispered, barely able to get the words out. "So rushed and clumsy," she quipped. She felt his teeth as he smiled into her skin and it made her smile too. He gave her stomach a final nuzzle and then she felt his hands slide lower, to her hips. She felt his light kisses trail down her stomach, then felt his mouth – deliberate and careful – press against her sex. A whimper burst out of her and her pelvis bucked up. "And selfish," she moaned. "They're so selfish."

House replied to her sarcastic comment by focusing all the more on her. She felt his mouth against her, leisurely but precise, and found herself squirming and arching, urging him on. For his part, House was enjoying his effect on her, as always. He slowly dragged his bottom lip along while his tongue woke up every inch of her. His hands slid from her hips to the inside of her thighs, pushing them apart to let him in more. He ran his nose from her knee back down her thigh, slowly letting his stubble make her writhe.

Her hands were suddenly on the back of his head, gently scratching and pulling in time to her panted breath. His tongue stopped its exploratory teasing and honed in, acquiescing to her silent request. He felt her hands turn into tiny fists as he circled her, bringing her closer. He knew all he needed to do – could play her like his piano by now – but so enjoyed these moments. She was his right then - her thoughts, her heart, her body – and he felt powerful and strangely righteous. If a woman like Cuddy would let him in, let herself be completely exposed to him, he had somehow earned that right? He had somehow done something right…

Cuddy moaned a long, luxurious moan, and so then he did do something right, right then. His lips closed around her and his tongue slid across her and she sat bolt upright with a squeaky gasp. Her body curled around him and her nails dug into his neck. He felt her hair just grazing his head and continued his movements, holding her hips in his hands, her thighs pressing against his forearms. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sounds of her pleasure, the tension of her muscles, the taste of her. She shuddered around him, pulling at the short hair on the back of his head and saying his name again and again. Her tension melted slowly away and she stayed there, curled over his head while he nuzzled her and laid his head on her thigh.

"Jesus," Cuddy finally sighed.

"You shoulda seen me in my younger days," he quipped, kissing her thigh and sitting up.

"No way," Cuddy replied, shaking her tousled curls. "That takes practice." She flopped backwards and sprawled on her back, her long legs bent to one side and her arms laced around his neck and pulling him with her. House propped up on one elbow and looked her up and down, running his hand along her curves as she stared at him through hooded eyes. "You really think we would have lasted?" she asked him after a minute.

House met her eyes, paused, then shrugged a little. "Who knows," he replied. "My jaded crabbiness might have gotten old."

Cuddy smiled at him. "I've had cheerful optimists," she informed him. "They're boring." She winked at him, which caused him to fling a leg across her and start rubbing up against her again, smelling her neck. "And less horny," she added.

"Anyone not horny around you needs to have their testosterone levels checked," he murmured into her hair, settling himself between her legs. She smiled at the ceiling.

House felt Cuddy wrap her legs around his waist, pulling her hips up to meet his. Her hands slid his tee shirt up his back and he bent his head to let her pull it off. Her hands slid down his chest and he closed his eyes, relishing her touch after the long day. He found himself instinctively pushing down against her, his pelvis finding hers like magnetic force. Their mouths met and their tongues danced while they partnered up in removing his pajama pants.

Cuddy slid her thighs along his. She felt his stubble rub along her chin as they kissed. She felt his fingers glide along her sides and tangle in her hair. She felt all things House in those moments and realized that all she had been searching for in those old photos – the connections to who he was now – were just efforts to somehow witness the process. This complicated man - who filled her heart but drove her insane, who hated everyone but saved their lives, whose heart seemed dead but had waited decades for hers – he was created over fifty years of experiences, good and bad. She was obsessed with the end product, and had been trying to see how he had come to be – well, him.

She suddenly couldn't get close enough to him. She pulled him against her harder, trying to feel every point where their skin connected. She kissed him more deeply, trying to taste what he was made of. She looked at his closed eyelids, and when they flickered open she searched the blue for how this mosaic of past experiences had come together the way it had. He searched hers right back and they stared as he moved into her, causing her to gasp a little. Their mouths stayed close, but they were barely kissing now - It was more like they were just sharing breath. Cuddy felt House's heart beating in his chest and his belly rising and dropping as he breathed. She was so acutely aware, suddenly in a novel way, of his flesh-and-bloodness.

His flesh and blood, as she thought these things, was craving her. House leaned his head back a little and closed his eyes, basking in the feeling of her around him. He moved slowly, trying to capture every sensation, but soon those damn middle-aged hormones were beckoning and he couldn't stop himself from pushing into her. She had her arms wrapped around his shoulders and was almost hanging off of him, her head craning to bury her face in his neck.

Cuddy felt him penetrating her and the strength of his body above her. She was so turned on by this side of him – the primitive instinct that could win out over his constant mindfulness… His animalistic side. In a way, sex really was love for him – the only place where he let his guard completely down with another person. She whispered, "The moment we met, I wanted to know you." Then she closed her lips around his earlobe.

House responded by pulling her up closer, one hand spread across her back as his elbows held him up. He turned and kissed her and started moving so quickly the entrances and retreats blurred together. Cuddy felt her muscles tensing and couldn't help but let her head drop back, exposing her neck to the onslaught of his mouth. They were nothing but breath and coiled muscle and hot skin in that moment, and they released simultaneous moans that each told the other they were falling together. They saw stars, mumbled names, and somehow kept hanging on to each other until they ended up a heap of limbs and gasps.

House rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so she was curled around his torso. He ran a hand along her back and rubbed his own face with the other, trying to regain his senses. Cuddy didn't want to resurface, however, and was content to murmur sleepily against his chest.

"Can I keep the photos at least?" Cuddy asked. "I won't make you look at them."

House chuckled. "It's fine, Cuddy," he relented. "I'll get over it. Life goes on." He bent and kissed the top of her head. "But you have to keep up my image. Like I told Wilson, as far as everyone else is concerned, my parents are the Devil and Clint Eastwood."

"The Devil?" Cuddy exclaimed. "Come on House, you aren't _that_ evil."

House smiled at her acceptance of Clint's hypothetical paternity. "Do you know how much I love you?" he replied.

"Yes," she replied mater-of-factly. "And I'll try to find some really embarrassing photos of me to repay you," she added. "Farrah Faucett hair, acne, braces – the works."

"Stop it or we'll have to have sex again," he replied.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

House walked into his office and flung his backpack under his desk. There was a wrapped package waiting for him on his chair. No tag or bow – just plain paper and his name on the front written in Cuddy's handwriting. He opened it.

Inside there was a plain wooden frame with a note taped to it. House read the note and pulled it off to reveal a photo of him and Rachel. They were sitting on the piano bench in Cuddy's living room and House wasn't even looking at the camera, but was staring at the keys with concentration. Rachel had one tiny hand on the keys, next to House's large weathered hands. She looked up at the camera grinning broadly, almost laughing, with her head leaning against House's arm. He remembered Cuddy taking the photo just days earlier.

House reread Cuddy's note: "_Life does go on, House. And on and on.._."

He stuck the note to the back of the frame and set the photo next to his ball – baptizing his desk with its first framed photograph. He walked into the next room to meet his team. "Okay, clowns," he called, limping to a chair. "What's next?"


End file.
